88 Man Against Shark 



shark's scent. Among the litter that had been dumped by the garbage scow was 

 a burlap sack. As it floated by our boat, I saw a big Tiger shark appear in the 

 spreading circle of refuse. He headed straight for the burlap sack, grabbed it 

 between his jaws and shook it. The sack ripped open, and for an instant I saw 

 its contents— a dead cat and four kittens. We rowed over to harpoon the shark, 

 but he gulped down the cat and swam off, leaving the kittens for his companions. 

 He had found, and gone straight to, the only bit of animal meat in the garbage- 

 strewn area. Then, in a split-second decision before fleeing, he had selected the 

 biggest morsel, the cat. 



Cuba is the only place where I caught a shark with a piece of cloth for bait. 

 The fisherman I accompanied to the dumping grounds had a scrap of white 

 cloth tied onto a big shark hook. When he had this, he explained, he did not 

 need bait. Somewhat skeptically, I hung it over the side. Sure enough, a large 

 shark took the hook in a few minutes. 



We pulled him in, but he turned out to be a she. She was close to giving 

 birth, so I cut her open carefully, performing a cesarean section with the 

 bottom of our little rowboat as my operating table. Two lively pups emerged, 

 each about 15 inches long. One leaped out of my hands, fell into the sea and 

 swam away. It was a perfect cesarean, which I believe would have been a credit 

 to any obstetrician. 



Home Port 



In the years that followed my stay in Cuba, there were fewer entries in my 

 Log. I was growing old, happily growing old, with no regrets. But no longer 

 were my hand and eye as swift as the shark, and I knew that it was only a 

 matter of time before I would make that one mistake that would be my last. 

 Reluctantly, I decided to give up shark-hunting. I became a lecturer on sharks. 

 It was a poor substitute for shark-hunting, but I knew, as the years passed and 

 I neared 70, that it was the only way. 



I had just about convinced myself that I would never again see a shark out- 

 side an aquarium when World War II began, and I was summoned back to the 

 sharks. 



I had two missions. I aided the Navy in its research to develop a repellent 

 that would keep sharks away from fliers downed at sea. And I led a search in 

 the Gulf of Mexico for sharks. Sharks were vitally needed during the war for 

 the vitamin A in their livers, and even an old man could help. 



One beautiful day I was in the Gulf aboard the pickup boat that was carrying 

 ice to the shrimp boat fleet. As we sailed along, I threw some chum over the 

 stern, and dropped over a couple of hand lines. A shark took the moving bait. 

 He came fast and he hooked clean. I was an old gaffer, and some of the younger 

 men aboard tried to give me a hand. But I wanted to land this one alone. I 

 pulled him aboard, trying not to look as if my arms were aching. I almost had 

 to let go. But I kept on pulling, and I landed him. 



Sixty years had passed since that day off La Jolla when I looked over the 

 side of the boat and saw my first shark. Now, as this big, gray beauty struggled 

 on the deck, I looked at him and I knew that I was looking at the last shark I 

 would ever catch. 



